


Fortune

by peabodythecat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Circus fic, Fortune Telling, Halloween, Young clint barton, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peabodythecat/pseuds/peabodythecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten year old Clint Barton visits the Fortune Teller</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune

It was almost midnight when Clint slipped into the fortune teller's wagon. Normally the ten year old was forbidden from entering the old gypsy woman's domain after dark, but She made an exception on Halloween. 

Madame Fortuna was sitting on a red velvet settee, staring into the flame of a candle. Clint knew better than to break her trance, so he melted into the shadows, waiting patiently for his turn. As he waited, he studied the surroundings. 

The wagon was old, but sturdy. It smelled like spices and candle wax. It's interior space was divided in two by a hanging tapestry: the parlor, where Clint was currently waiting, and a private space, where he assumed the old gypsy slept. 

The parlor was full of weird and wonderful things: brass hour glass, whose sparkling sand tracked appointments; a grey polished stone, the size of a dove's egg,that always felt warm, the temperature of a human hand. A large mirror hung on one wall. It was covered by a black lace shroud. The only time Madame Fortuna had ever struck Clint was when he'd tried to peek beneath. It was the look of terror on her face, rather than the blow that prevented him from sneaking back to try again. Thick tomes written in foreign alphabets, black and white pictures of unsmiling men and women from the old country, and a statue of a smiling black cat filled the shelves on the opposite wall.

Clint loved the wagon. He loved examining, usually from a respectful distance, Madame Fortuna and her treasures. But his favorite was the tapestry. In his child's eyes it was huge. It hung from floor to ceiling. It was woven from a thick, heavy material that shimmered in the candlelight. It was covered with varied and intricate scenes that Clint swore were ever changing. There were kings and queens in castles; fantastic creatures, unicorns and dragons. There were scenes of battle. Planets danced across starry skies. Sometimes the moon which hung above a grove of oak trees was full, other times a mere fingernail sized crescent. 

No matter how the other scenes changed, however,one remained constant. A tiny figure, dressed in purple, so dark as to almost be black, carrying a bow was always there. Once the archer had a magnificent bird of prey (a falcon, or maybe a hawk) perched on his shoulder. Another time he was dancing with a red haired woman in a ballerina's tutu. Yet another time, he was engulfed in what appeared to be blue flame with a broken heart at his feet.

Tonight, Clint found his archer leading a line of children through a graveyard. Glowing eyes peered menacingly from behind the tombstones and skeletal hands reached out to grab he little ones. But the archer was leading them safely through the darkness. The scene gave Clint a funny feeling, leaving him restless and vaguely unsatisfied. 

He'd been staring at the tapestry for a long time when he heard the gypsy clear her throat.   
"Ah, Eyas. You have kept your promise to visit an old woman on this night." Her voice was smooth and deep. Clint shivered a bit and walked over to the settee. 

She clasped his hands. Her own were wrinkled and bony, but still strong. She turned his hands palms up and traced his fingertips (already calloused from hours of practice with his bow.) she studies the markings on his palms: life line running crooked across his skin; love line so very, very deep, but so tragically short; and the scars...too many for a child to bear. 

Then she looked into his eyes, so blue and pure and clear. She silently cursed her ability to see the future. She'd have to tread carefully with this one, her Eyas, her little hawk. She needed to warn him of the danger, of the hardships, but not crush his spirit. A fine line, indeed.

"Yes, Eyas, on this night when the veil between worlds is lifted, now that you have ten summers to your credit, I will read for you." She paused and looked at Clint. 

He looked ridiculously young. He was small for his age, years of neglect taking their toll, but his spirit was enormous. She could sense it pulsing within him. Spirit didn't care about dirty bare feet or an angry bruise darkening the boy's cheekbone. Clint met her gaze and nodded determinedly. 

His eyes dropped to the sharp silver dagger that sat on the table. He paled a bit, but bravely held out his arm, rolling up his shabby sleeves to bare his wrist.

Madame Fortuna took his wrist,feeling his pulse racing in the thin blue vein. She closed her eyes for a moment. When she finally spoke, was there a but of relief in her voice? 

"No, Eyas. Not this time." She reached out and stroked his face, her fingers gentle where hard fists left their mark. "You have already made your sacrifice in blood and pain on this day."

Instead of the dagger, she brought forth two small glasses and a vial of clear liquid. "This time we shall drink the cordial and together hear what the future holds." She poured the cordial and handed Clint the cup. Before he raised it to his lips, she covered his hands, "dear one. This must be your choice. Do not do this thing to please me. You may see terrible things. Things that may frighten you, or disgust you. But you may see wonderful things. Whatever you decide, know this. You Clinton Barton, my Eyas, my Hawk, are a good person. You must believe this no matter what the spirits, the powers reveal."

Clint blushed slightly, unused to gentle touches and kind words. He was nervous, but something deep in his core was telling him to go through with the ritual. "Thank you, Madame, but I need to see."

She nodded and together they drank.  
*******

Some time later, Clint staggered out of the wagon into the cold, clear night. Visions of beating wings, blood, and freezing cold swirled through his mind. He felt raw, confused, but also exhilarated. Too wound up to go back to the tiny trailer he shared with Barney and the other circus orphans, he headed to the big top. His target was still set up from the night's show. He drew his bow and shot arrow after arrow, clearing his mind and grounding him in the present. 

The visions of his future, as confusing as most of had been, made one thing absolutely clear: he would be Hawkeye, The Worlds Greatest Marksman. The prophesy wouldn't fulfill itself. Clint Barton knew that. He knew he'd never simply be given anything in this life. he'd have to earn it. Work hard for it. 

And long into the night he practiced. He would be ready.


End file.
